And Michael kept watching. Couldn't help but watch…couldn't get away from it.

The new fish were here, some of them more noticeable than others. Michael had seen them all as they walked in; the quietly scared, the repeat offenders, the swaggerers. He could see, smell, the fear coming off of these new men. And if he noticed it, so did T-Bag.

Michael watched T-Bag watch the new fish. Michael assessed all the men coming in, his brain sorting through all the tiny details; T-Bag wouldn't want the older men, the fat men, the men who weren't afraid. He'd want the kids, the ones who'd never been to prison before, who only knew of prison through books and movies, the boys with wide eyes and tension in their shoulders. If Michael understood one thing about T-Bag, it was that he thrived off the fear of his victims.

And then he chose. A kid; indeed, probably barely eighteen, shorter than T-Bag, smaller framed. He had a tattoo on his bicep that looked pretty fresh, and Michael guessed it was fresh because he'd only recently become old enough to get a tattoo. The boy was good looking, with dark hair and eyes. T-Bag wanted this kid. Michael saw all the signs.

The intervention between the kid and the Aryan brothers…and how T-Bag, very physically, helped the kid up and dusted him off, smacking his arms, back, hips enthusiastically. Their conversation in the bleachers…and the hand on the knee and the kid's scared, angry response. His cruel taunts…and the kid's terrified eyes.

It was the eyes that did it. They were dark, not pale, but they looked so much like Cherry's eyes, that morning in the shower. That same raw panic. Enough. Michael couldn't watch this any more.

"Maybe you ought to leave the kid alone," Michael said, angrily cutting T-Bag off mid-rant as he followed the boy back into the cell block, taunting him about 'sleeping with one eye open' and 'bringing it in spades.'.

T-Bag's eyebrows raised, and he stalked over to Michael. "And maybe you're in no position to be tellin' me my business. Unless you really, really want me to be in…well, not your business, Pretty, but something else. 'Cause I'd be okay with that. You're even prettier than Tweener, anyway. With those pretty blue eyes…mm." T-Bag's brown eyes locked on Michael's with those words, and Michael could see the lust and the sick delight in those brown eyes.

Michael swallowed, stepping backwards. He felt a metal pole against his back, one of the supports for the stairs. T-Bag took a step closer, and Michael felt himself freeze, like a deer in the headlights.

"My last plaything's gone, see? And a man like myself gets bored, and to be entirely honest, stimulated, without someone to relieve the tension with. You understand my dilemma, Pretty?" Michael could see that T-Bag was enjoying this, enjoying toying with him, but he was powerless to stop him.

"Now, you haven't exactly been forthcoming with your affections, but if you're willing to re-negotiate, I could perhaps be persuaded to take your attentions, rather than a certain other boy's." T-Bag's tongue slithered out of his mouth for a moment, and Michael watched it, disgusted but distant. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening.

"So, Pretty? Are you offering?" T-Bag's face was mere inches from Michael's. "You wanna feel all the things I can do to you? Want me to claim this body of yours?" He put his hand on Michael's hip and squeezed.

Michael jerked away, startled out of his trance by shock and pain. Those hands were stronger than they appeared. T-Bag's mouth tipped again, into that same, ever so unpleasant smirk.

"That's what I thought," he said, turning away without so much as a backwards glance. Leaving Michael standing there, in the middle of the tier, watching him walk away.

Watching him walk away. Again. Leaving that kid on his own. Another kid. And in a month, a week, a day…another dead kid. Another kid, hanging from the tier with a broken neck. And Michael was just watching this piece of shit walk away.

"Keep walking, cons!" Stolte yelled. "Scofield, move it!"

Walk away. So he did.